


we'll take it off and soak our skin

by valerian



Category: Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valerian/pseuds/valerian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pain is pain is pain is pain is pretty is noble is for Mother Russia.</p><p>A character study through seasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll take it off and soak our skin

**Author's Note:**

> The dialogue at the end is borrowed directly from Winter Soldier #10 by Ed Brubaker.

It’s winter, and Natalia Romanova is always dripping red.

Some of the colors she remembers. Others she does not. It matters little. They flash through her mind in fragments, pieces. Like tree branches and tiled mosaics, they are never whole, never congruent, but they are. She must cling to them and hold them tight. If reality exists then these butterfly memories are the foundations of her soul.

—

It’s spring, and Stalingrad does not know that it is the season of rebirth. The sun hardly flirts with the clouds anymore, but on one of the few days blue paints the sky Mother takes her to the local playground to “make friends” with the other children. Natalia spends most of the hour on one of the squeakier swings, choosing the sweet rush of wind in her ears to the cries of seven-year-olds laughing. 

Some of the girls, bound by their finest dresses and cleanest stockings, take offense to her lone wolf. Anna Zolotova, leader of the pack and self-proclaimed “princess of the world,” prances behind Natalia and shoves at the girl mid-flight. The impact of the push knocks the offender backward onto the asphalt (sweet karma never forgives), but the victim usually falls the hardest. And fall she does. A small voice in the back of her mind tells her that she could have held on, could have clung for dear life, yet Natalia chooses instead to soar. Through the air, hair rippling, a swooping in her stomach. _Maybe this is why birds sing_ , she thinks, before the ground is too close for comfort and her hands and knees start to bleed.

That is how it begins. The dripping down her shins, the dripping down her wrist. Red even drips down her neck. She does not cry; Mother’s tears are enough for two. She does not curse; Father does in burdened Russian when he sees her scratched, porcelain face. _My doll,_ he whispers before pacing their cramped parlor, and Natalia watches him to forget about the pressing sting of bandages on cuts.

They put her to bed soon after. Her stomach rumbles uncomfortably, and the sheets feel especially cold. In their worry, Mother and Father have forgotten to feed her supper.

—

It’s summer, and supper is getting cold on the kitchen table. Okroshka sits thickly in white bowls. Pelmeni lies topped with sour cream in blue plates. The family is gathered around the table, except Father is slouching and Mother is slouching, even though Mother has always said, _no slouching at meals, a comrade must exhibit proper manners!_

But what manners are appropriate for this occasion, Natalia wonders. What manners can she possibly exhibit while trembling in the liquor cabinet and holding back sobs fiercer than the blizzard last March? For this is not true, this is not real, this cannot be. It is too soon to be dripping again. Warm droplets splattered on the china, and the sour cream so unappetizing in red. Even the carpet goes unspared. Blood stains, _like wine, are hard to rub out, Natalia, remember that before you make a mess._

—

It’s autumn, and pain is all she knows. Her limbs are contorted daily into impossible positions. Her lungs are squeezed to their bursting point. In the Red Room every walk is a jog, every jog is a run, every run is a sprint. Every sprint is a marathon of adrenaline and fog and haziness and numb, numb pain. Natalia suffers (loves) every second of it. Even the yelling.

Even the worst bits, when they put her in a very cold room with a very cold man holding a very cold syringe. The needle breaks her skin easily, and her blood leaves her lithe body through plastic tubes. The sight dazzles, dripping and dripping into a thin, clear bag.

 _This makes you stronger,_ very cold man says, and Natalia takes a minute to reply because her life is such a beautiful shade of red. So beautiful that she regrets the needle pulling out of her skin, the small bandage covering the point of entry.

That night, pain is pain is pain is pain is pretty is noble is for Mother Russia. A chant for bedtime when it rains outside the dormitory and water drips down the window like a prayer.

—

It’s spring again, and she hasn’t lost blood in five years. Many have tried to destroy her, of course, but she has the sturdiest defense, the strongest will, and the quickest mind. Like a finely tuned machine or a master assassin-in-training, she makes minute mistakes and has even fewer flaws. The Red Room rewards her finesse with their finest chance of tearing her down. Ignite the chilliest flame, they say. Unleash the Winter Soldier.

The other orphans experience, for the first time in their short lives, a singular sense of pity—and this for Natalia, too, who knew? Their doubtful mutterings echo throughout the hall, but the girl has long since shut their voices away.

 _Let them talk._ What do they understand of perfection, the killing stroke?

Lest she forget why the Winter Soldier has his reputation (and she has hers), he does not wait to deliver a heavy blow to her shoulder. She dodges by darting left. Either a grimace or a grin illuminates his face when she evades his next two punches and strikes the back of his right knee. The man falters, and this is the perfect moment for a scissor kick. Natalia leaps, but he catches her ankle and, twisting, topples her, _shit._ A pressure around her midsection and a squeezing sensation around her neck.

Knee to the groin, and she’s in the lead for a healthy three seconds.

 _Interesting,_ he whispers with a foot on her belly. Stomping (pressing) once, he makes her bleed for the (only) first time in five years. Dripping down the side of her mouth. She wipes it away quickly with the back of her hand, like applying lipstick in the dark, smearing red everywhere.

—

It’s summer again, and her first target chokes. Not by garrote, not even by poison. By bullet wound to the right lung, just under the heart.

_To make him suffer. He is a traitor to Mother Russia. He cannot leave this world easily._

Natalia watches him drown with dispassion. Eyes roll to the back of the head, a gurgling sound. Gasping, lots of that. And slouching forward in his chair. Red drips into the glass of vodka, creating a swirling pattern she studies while pulling on her skirt. She closes the door gently when she leaves.

A few blocks away, James blends on a bench, book in hand. Eyes narrowed in concentration, he moves his lips with the words. The image, so normal and outrageous all at once, stuns her into laughter. He looks up, smirks. A hint of a blush on his cheeks.

_You appear to be having a good day, Natalia._

_Yes. I am._

He closes the book, and she notices that he has a dried leaf for a bookmark.

_Sentimental._

_No._ He glances at his wristwatch. _Let’s go._

They link arms, like the cheery couple they are pretending to be.

_Easy?_

_Yes._

_You don’t sound happy about that._

_I’m hard to please._

_I know you. You wanted a complicated assignment. You wanted to prove something. Your worth._

_He was a bad person._

_So am I. Yet, you wouldn’t shoot me, would you?_

_No, I would not shoot you. I would hunt you._

_And skin me like an animal?_

_There are a few torture techniques I find particularly effective on you._

When they walk past an elderly couple, the husband nods and smiles. The wife bursts into tears. _Remember when we looked like that, Peter? Remember when we looked like that?_

_—_

It’s autumn again, and she wishes the circumstances around their reunion were different.

Bodies lay scattered on the floor. Blank faces without names, bruises without pain, scratches without bandages to cover them up.

Natalia has the knife, could throw it anytime, but this is James she is talking about. James, the Winter Soldier; James, the (her) lover; James, the ruthless (killer, murderer) assassin; James, the man she has not seen in five years.

Her English, perfect.

_Let’s be reasonable._

_No. Not anymore._

His American accent, authentic. So much so that her heart aches. What does it mean? Is this the missing link? The agony and the sleepless nights. Could this be—?

Gunshot over her left shoulder. She was stupid for hesitating. The knife sails through the air, and Natalia Romanova does not miss. Cannot miss.

For the first time in a long time, the red that drips is warm and knowable.

_Oh._

Oh, no.

She leaves, because that is wise. She leaves, because this is a mess and she’s made a mess and she is exhausted, and, if she dare admit it, quite hungry.

_—_

It’s spring.

_Drip._

It’s summer.

_Drip._

It’s autumn.

_Drip._

It’s spring.

It’s summer.

It’s autumn.

__

It’s autumn.

It’s summer.

It’s spring.

__

It’s winter, and they have their first afternoon off in a month. Their assignment had been in a remote village in rural China, so naturally Fury drops them in Paris. _The city of love! For the nauseating love birds._

_We are not nauseating._

_Give it another year. You’ll get there._

The Eiffel Tower seems to glitter even in the fog. The majesty is intimidating up close.

_It reminds me of you, James. Tall, foreboding, something I’d enjoy climbing._

_“Something”? I’m not a “thing.” I’m a man._

_You are_ such _a man._

_You say that like it’s a bad thing._

_It isn’t. Believe me._

_Clearly—Shit._ Fat droplets of rain start to fall from the dark clouds in the sky. Thankfully she had the foresight to bring an umbrella, but Natasha Romanoff does not mind the rain. The water drops are like tears. They slide onto her forehead, her eyelids, down her cheeks, her nose, lips, chin. Neck. Like honey, like soft beats of her heart. Like a bath washing red away.

_One afternoon off in a whole month, and we get this?_

_Oh come on. You fought the Nazis, James. Don’t go whining about a little rain._

_If I have to compare everything to fighting Nazis, I won’t get to complain about anything._

_I like the rain…_

(It’s the only dripping she has ever loved.) 


End file.
